Imagine the world’s best salmon, added to the world’s most decadently naughty foie gras, tickled by oyster tapioca, licked by air-thin daikon radish slivers, punched by immense hits of umami and sweet, smoky soy wafts. A crunch of immaculately trimmed and fried silver skin, a sand-pit of unidentifiable edible dust. All kicked into perfect, spankingly fresh touch by a slice of sharp, crunchy granny smith and peppery ginger.
Aside, a diminutive dollop of thick, black, elemental salmon belly fat, cast into the night by shots of squid ink.
I was lucky enough to be at the World Sushi Awards on Saturday. I still can’t get over the flavours of Swedish chef Sayan Isaksson’s mouthful of fresh sushi. So utterly brilliantly thought out that I can’t help but wax lyrical, sail close to wind of verbosity and slip into raptures at the thought of it.
I’m making myself sick with envy.